


Trigger

by Shapeshifter99



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Laurent has two modes in this fic: uncontrollable flirt and CONCERNED, M/M, the gang being worried af about Makoto, tw blood and injury, two bros chillin' in a shower...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26011276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shapeshifter99/pseuds/Shapeshifter99
Summary: Makoto gets caught up in being the hero and, predictably, this doesn't turn out well for him.
Relationships: Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Comments: 96
Kudos: 1787





	Trigger

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no excuse for how long this is, except maybe 'I'm the Waffle Queen'. I was also half-asleep when I wrote most of this so apologies for any mistakes in the text!

Makoto wasn’t quite sure how things had turned out this way. He’d done many a con in his life—for petty thievery and grand justice and everything in between—and since falling into Laurent Thierry’s hemisphere that work had gotten riskier. Makoto had been threatened by drug kingpins, survived airplane crashes, and had lied, cheated, blackmailed, and stolen enough to make up for all of Jesus’ miracles. He couldn’t even say that he’d never looked down the barrel of a gun before.

Which was why when the three men he had been negotiating with suddenly whipped out their weapons and pointed them at him in a grimy alleyway in Bucharest, Makoto stayed calm and put his hands up.

“C’mon fellas,” he said. “Let’s not get hasty.”

“Our boss wanted all of it, not just a quarter,” one of the men growled in accented English.

It had been difficult to try and bargain with Iulian Popescu, the man in control of the arms trade in Romania and who had been illegally exporting weapons to half of Europe for the past few years in exchange for a fortune. The man was self-reliant, demanding, and clever to boot—a difficult mark to cheat out of their money. But Laurent and Abby had insisted on taking him down, the former for the great pay-off and the latter for the satisfaction of crushing another scumbag beneath her boot.

Makoto smiled pleasantly. “Well, _my_ boss is far too paranoid to give up his entire stock with no upfront compensation,” he said. “This business transaction is to test the waters of a future partnership, remember?”

Clearly these brutes _didn’t_ remember, judging by the way they hefted up their handguns. Makoto felt sweat starting to prickle on the back of his neck. This was supposed to be the easy part—a transaction of ‘top-of-the-line weaponry’ to establish trust and ingratiate themselves to Popescu’s crew. Makoto wasn’t sure what these thugs were playing at, but it wasn’t part of the plan.

“If you’re not happy with the terms, then I can take this truck of weapons back to storage and let Popescu and Laurent sort this out themselves,” Makoto said nonchalantly, hoping the men’s fear of their boss would push them to conclude the deal.

Two of them exchanged nervous side glances. The third, the one who’d spoken, narrowed his eyes.

“There’s no need to trouble the boss about something we can settle here and now.” His tone wasn’t cajoling—in fact, it was downright aggressive.

It was at this point that Makoto realized something was very, very wrong. Clearly these guys had some ideas of their own on what to do with the weapons and had absolutely no trouble crossing their employer _and_ trampling the middleman in their efforts to get what they wanted. Which meant that things were about to go south very quickly.

The truck full of their weapons meant to pass muster was behind him, at the entrance of the alleyway. Kudou-san, disguised, was at the wheel, but likely not able to discern what was happening because the front of the truck was blocked by the buildings that formed one side of the alley—so he wouldn’t see the guys coming for the guns if Makoto didn’t do something. And they sure as hell wouldn’t want witnesses.

Damn it.

Makoto grit his teeth and inhaled shakily.

“Edamura? What’s going on?” Kudou-san’s tinny voice echoed in his ears. At this rate he could likely hear Makoto’s unsteady breathing through the earpiece. 

The thugs were staring at him expectantly. The leader’s finger twitched around his trigger.

Why the hell hadn’t Laurent, psychic, all-seeing Laurent, been able to account for _this?_

“Kudou-san, _drive!_ ” Makoto yelled in Japanese before lunging forward and grappling the gun from the leftmost goon. “Get the guns out of here!”

“What—why?!”

“Just do it!” Makoto dodged a punch from the disarmed man and fumbled with the gun he’d acquired. The last time he’d held a gun, he’d threatened Cassano’s life for having ‘killed’ Laurent and Abby—he’d been just as close to pissing himself then as he was now.

To his relief, there was the squeal of tires behind him as Kudou-san hit the gas pedal.

One of the men yelled gutturally in Romanian before firing at the truck as the vehicle struggled to jump into full speed, but only hit the broad side of it instead of puncturing rubber. It was enough to pull the other still-armed thug, the leader, from going after Makoto as he began to fire too.

Makoto was doing his best to stay out of the disarmed man’s reach, still trying to turn off the safety even as his damp hands slid over the metal. He finally found the catch and raised the gun, just as the man barreled into him. Makoto gasped as he slammed against the wall and got the breath knocked out of him. To his horror, he lost his grip on the gun and it clattered to the pavement.

He got a fist to the abdomen for his troubles and he wheezed past the pain, mind kicking into overdrive as panic took over.

The two others had ventured to the mouth of the alleyway, cursing, but didn’t fire again after the truck. It was hard to appreciate this with his ribs screaming, but it was the little things, Makoto guessed.

“You really didn’t think that I was just going to let you guys ruin this deal?” he croaked once some air had reentered his lungs, only for the man attacking him to sock him in the solar plexus. _Fuck_. If a bone hadn’t cracked before, it sure had now.

The Romanians yelled at each other as Makoto was pinned to the brick wall by a burly arm. One of them was on the phone. They clearly hadn’t expected their day to go like this—that made four of them, so Makoto didn’t feel too bad about it. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly as their shouts rang in his ears. Laurent was going to kill him for screwing this up so badly.

More worriedly, he was going to end up black and blue if he didn’t engineer an escape plan.

“You moron!” The leader stormed over and stuck the muzzle of his gun under Makoto’s chin, forcing it up. His blood ran cold and he started to tremble minutely. “You’re going to pay for this.”

“I thought the original plan was for _you_ to pay _me_ ,” Makoto rasped in Japanese. The loon who’d kicked his ass still hadn’t picked up his gun. If only he could—

“Speak English or Romanian, none of that dumb Korean shit.”

Makoto’s temper flared and he saw red. He lowered his gaze to stare the lead thug in the eye, his glare absolutely blazing. “I—” He shifted. “Am _not_ —” Lifted his foot. “ _Fucking—_ ” He steeled himself. “KOREAN!” He slammed his foot into the instep of the man holding him and was viciously satisfied by the pained yelp he released as he moved away from Makoto.

Faster than Makoto could ever remember being, he immediately ducked, dodging the grasp of the leader, and swiped the gun on the floor. He skirted to the side, heart pounding, and the two idiot lackeys got tangled together in their attempts to follow him as the leader snarled.

 _Okay, go!_ Makoto ran for the alleyway’s exit at full pelt, still holding the gun.

The leader barked something behind him, and shots were fired, pinging near Makoto’s feet. He squeaked and began to zig-zag. The street was so close though, and despite his fear, something close to elation also pounded in his veins. This was _it_ , he just had to get out of this and then they’d renegotiate with Popescu—

He heard a loud sound, then staggered forward mid-stride. Pain erupted in his side, white-hot, and he went down. He landed heavily on the cement—too winded to even scream, he curled in on himself as the agony in his abdomen pulsated.

 _I’ve been shot,_ he realized slowly. He’d dropped the gun in his fall and it now lay out of reach. Just shifting was enough to stab fire through his body.

He was done for.

Above the roaring in his ears, Makoto was able to distinguish the sounds of footsteps and muddled voices. They were going to finish him off, he thought, and his stomach sank. Not that they needed to—he was in enough pain that he had to wonder how long it would take before he bled out.

Indistinct Romanian wavered above him, just sharp enough that Makoto could tell that they were angry. He closed his eyes, expecting another bullet to finish the job—but after a few moments, the footsteps rapidly faded.

Wow. He was so dead that they couldn’t even be bothered to finish him off? Makoto found himself strangely offended at the thought, then winced.

God, bullet wounds fucking _hurt_.

He forced his eyes open. He could see the distant, blurry figures of the Romanians disappear in a rush around the corner of the alleyway. So they really _were_ leaving him to die.

Laurent, Abby, and Cynthia were going to be so pissed at him for this, he thought morosely. Even in death he wouldn’t be able to escape disappointment. Poor little Edamame-kun, he had such promise, but then he went and got himself _shot_ and we lost our edge for the perfect con.

Okay, maybe they wouldn’t say that, exactly. He’d even wager that they’d possibly be a little sad. About him dying, that is—being sad about the con going wrong was a given.

The warm puddle he’d been lying in was growing bigger by the second. At this rate he really was going to die if he didn’t do something. Maybe if he lasted long enough, he could at least warn the others where the plan had gone wrong.

With tremendous effort, Makoto forced himself to sit up. He nearly retched as the pain hit him, shocking black spots into his vision that took a few moments to fade. His whole back felt wet and sticky, and the exit wound in his abdomen wasn’t looking much better.

Slowly, painfully, Makoto dragged himself to the side of the alley. His arms trembled from the effort and if his shirt weren’t already soaked, he imagined it would have been damp with sweat, but he kept himself going. Once he was able to prop himself against the cold wall he shivered in relief. Next came the hard part—the only thing he had available to try and slow the bleeding was the ruined bomber jacket he was wearing as part of his set-up to convince the Romanians of his toughness. Or something. It had been Laurent’s suggestion, and he had picked out the outfit.

He managed to wriggle one arm out of a sleeve and shrugged off the other, trying to bull through the sharp agony of his bullet wound. Finally, he succeeded in balling up the jacket and placed it between his back and the wall here the injury was. Leaning back on it was near-agony, but Makoto gritted his teeth and persisted.

Everything was becoming a little blurry around the edges, fading in and out of Makoto’s general perception as he placed his hands on the exit wound and did his best in applying pressure to it.

 _I’ve probably lost too much blood,_ he thought dully. He wasn’t going to make it, was he? So much of his life now had been dedicated to conning people, but when had he ever been injured like this? The closest he could remember was getting the shit kicked out of him by Cassano, but even then he hadn’t been scared he would die.

There was something about these games—because that was what they were, especially to Laurent and Cynthia. These games made you feel invincible, even in the face of life-threatening danger, because so much of it was an illusion that you could convince yourself that all of it was an unreality.

Well, this hole in his chest felt pretty fuckin’ real.

Damn it. If his mother had ever seen him like this, she would have died from a heart attack.

Makoto closed his eyes, a gesture that was meant to be brief, but quickly found he didn’t have the energy to open them again. His hands were slippery with blood and he struggled to keep them pressed against his abdomen. At least the pain was fading now—more because he was blacking out than any miraculous healing.

Makoto’s mind began to drift further and further. It was hard to remember why he was here, or why he had to keep pressure on his abdomen. Wouldn’t it be easier to just relax? He was so tired, he deserved a nap.

“Makoto?” his mom said.

He didn’t even have the strength to shake his head. “Just lemme sleep,” he mumbled. He’d work tomorrow.

“Stay awake, alright?” His mom’s voice swam in his head, distorted. “You have to stay awake. Laurent!”

Makoto hadn’t realized his mom and Laurent knew each other. Small world, huh? Maybe Laurent could learn a thing or two from his mom about not being a total ass.

“Makoto.” There were gentle hands on his face, cradling him. He leaned into the warm touch and sighed.

“Mom…” Where had she gone? There was a dull throbbing in his chest. “Come back.” Maybe she could tell these people to leave him alone.

He was suddenly jostled violently, and he cried out as the throbbing flashed into agony. Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone? “Get your hands off me!” he tried to shout, but it came out more as a pathetic mutter.

“It’s alright, Makoto,” his mom said to him, and he sagged in relief. “We just need to get you out of here.”

“Mom, it hurts,” he rasped. “Make it stop.”

“Anyone know what the hell he’s saying?”

He was being moved again—no, wait, he was lying down now, that was good, that was better—and he heard a door slamming shut. His head was resting on a soft lap and through the haze of pain he could feel fingers tangling in his hair. Everything was rumbling around him. An earthquake, really? That was the last thing he needed.

“Mom,” he tried again, but she didn’t reply.

“Just hold on, Makoto,” Laurent said quietly, and everything went dark.

* * *

When Makoto came to, it was to a room cloaked in shadows. No, not completely. He blinked his eyes blearily—God, they felt gunky—and realized that there was a small amount of light filtering into the room from a large window overlooking a twinkling skyline. Stars mirrored the brilliant cityscape and shone brightly overhead, though it was a wonder with the light pollution from Bucharest.

Wait, was he even still in Bucharest?

Makoto shifted to get up and huffed as his body twinged in response. He settled back into the luxurious pillows he’d been sleeping on and struggled to get his breath back.

Okay. Okay. He’d been shot. That would explain the difficulty breathing. And the pain in his abdomen. And the passing out.

Fractured memories bounced around his skull, too difficult to place. He remembered dreaming about his mother—in the moment though, he’d been convinced that she… A different kind of pain settled below his ribs and he inhaled deeply. Nope. Not thinking about that.

He could also recall brief flashes of what he assumed was a hospital. Bright white, the sharp smell of antiseptic at the back of his throat. He could taste the bitterness on his tongue even now. But these memories were blurry and indistinct, and to be honest Makoto was a bit astonished he could remember anything at all.

But did that mean the crew had found him? Kudou-san had really pulled through for him. If they’d taken just a little longer, he could’ve already been dead from blood loss.

In the dark of the night, it was a bit easier to come to terms with his brush with death. Still, he shivered at the thought of how close it had been.

Slowly, he pushed down the soft sheets covering him and pulled at the loose T-shirt he was wearing, his own. His abdomen was thoroughly wrapped with bandages, and when Makoto gently prodded at it, the resulting pain wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.

His curiosity then invited him to look around the room he was in. It wasn’t recognizable but had the polished feel of a high-class hotel room. The bed he was in was huge, a king, but there was still plenty of room for several armchairs clustered around a shiny coffee-table and a two-person dining table near the window—which, on further inspection (read: squinting) revealed a balcony. Makoto could only assume that the small hallway that led to somewhere out of sight included a bathroom and the door out. All in all, sumptuous.

“I should get shot more often,” Makoto said aloud. His voice was scratchy and faint and so small in comparison to the splendor of the room.

He reclined back onto the pillows. He still felt exhausted, but he’d also been asleep for who knew how long. Besides… He eyed the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed. It would be a shame to pass on this luxe for something like sleep.

Eventually, though, there was one need that made itself the most pressing—Makoto was convinced his bladder was going to explode if he didn’t get to the bathroom _right now_.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of bed. His feet met plush carpet and he forced himself to stand. He felt weak as hell, but it was bearable. He shuffled around the bed, holding his wound all the while, and headed for the suspected bathroom.

His first try led him into a giant closet—his second, fortunately, did in fact end up being a bathroom. Makoto fumbled for the light switch and flinched as bright light exploded into his sensitive eyes. Shielding them with his elbow while they adjusted, he carefully inched inside and felt around to find out where everything was.

Somehow managing to do his business while half-blinded and close to keeling over, Makoto washed his hands at the sink and managed to get a proper look at himself.

All in all, it could have been worse, he supposed. Despite his prolonged rest, dark circles rested under his reddened eyes, his face was covered in stubble, and his bedhead was defying gravity mostly due to its incredible greasiness. Now that he thought about it, giving himself a sniff, it seemed like he hadn’t had a good bath in a while, though his T-shirt and boxers were fresh.

He glanced longingly at the massive walk-in shower in the corner of the room, but he didn’t trust himself to stay standing for prolonged periods of time with his wound, and he had a niggling idea that a soak in the large tub probably wasn’t a good shout either.

Resigned, he shuffled back out of the bathroom, but left the light on. Just as he was maneuvering it so it would remain half closed, the door behind him clicked, and opened.

Abby, sloppily dressed in a tank and sweatpants and with a steaming mug in hand, blinked at him, startled, and he blinked back.

“You’re awake?” she said, and the surprise in her voice made Makoto question if he was, in fact, awake.

“Um,” he said intelligently, leaning on the bathroom door for support.

Abby’s eyes immediately narrowed. “Idiot!” she snapped. “You shouldn’t be standing up right now.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Makoto complained as she ushered him back towards the bed, taking care to avoid coming into contact with her hot cup.

She pushed him—albeit gently—onto the soft mattress once he was close enough. He relented, eyeing her carefully. Her irritation was a relief—at least something was normal in this unfamiliar place. “Where are we?” he asked first.

Abby placed her mug on the coffee table and scowled at him. “Still in Bucharest,” she replied. “We changed hotels once we knew we’d be staying longer than planned.”

“It’s definitely an upgrade,” Makoto murmured, sinking back into his pillows. “How long was I out?”

One of Abby’s eyebrows twitched. “A week,” she finally said.

“A week?” Makoto yelped, only to recoil as his reflexive jerk aggravated his wound.

“Idiot!” Abby hissed again. “ _Yes_ , a week. You lost a lot of blood—the doctors didn’t have to try hard to keep you under so that your recovery would be smoother.”

“That explains why I smell so bad, at least.”

“You always stink, Edamame.”

“Hey!” Makoto pointed at her accusingly. “You can’t be mean to the invalid. I nearly died!”

Instead of another snarky retort, Abby’s expression promptly shuttered. She turned to look out the window, and Makoto balked at her reaction.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Makoto cleared his throat. “So Kudou-san made it out okay?”

Abby nodded once.

“And the con?”

“Still on,” she said shortly.

Makoto relaxed slightly. So he hadn’t fucked up irreparably.

“And where are the others?”

Abby finally glanced at him, her expression incredulous.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…” She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “They’re all taking a break.”

“A break from what?” Makoto said, frowning openly.

“Watching over your dumb ass,” she snapped at him. “I had to drag Laurent away earlier tonight because he was practically asleep on his feet—we’ve been taking shifts to make sure you had someone with you at all times. But of course, when I decide to get a coffee is when you decide to rejoin the land of the living.” To accentuate her point, she picked up her mug and took an angry slurp before slamming it back down. “You just had to get yourself _fucking shot_.”

Makoto was silent for a moment. “I didn’t mean to cause you guys trouble,” he said, feeling unexpectedly meek.

Abby sighed and tilted her head back. The cracked bathroom door illuminated her long, graceful neck with warm yellow light. “You… That’s not what I meant.”

_Then what did you mean?_

“But you said the con was still on… so Popescu hasn’t pulled out?” he asked instead.

Abby’s head lowered. She grabbed one of the armchairs and pulled it to Makoto’s bedside “After… what happened, Laurent got in contact with him. Explained the situation, about how his men turned on you. Popescu knew that we were angry and of course, he’s still thinking with moneybags in his eyes like a cartoon character. So, the two of them managed to work something out.”

It was beyond vague, but Makoto’s exhaustion was starting to pull at him so he didn’t think he could quite complain. He pulled the covers up to his abdomen and nestled in. “Can you give me the full update tomorrow?”

Abby didn’t reply for a moment. “You should get some sleep. I’ll tell the others you’re awake later.”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna watch over me like some guardian angel,” Makoto murmured, cracking open a tired eye. “Because I think a devil would suit you more.”

Abby snorted. “Go to sleep or I’ll _make_ you sleep, bastard.”

“There we go.” And then Makoto was out like a light.

* * *

This time, it was light out when Makoto awoke. The curtains had been drawn, but they still let a generous amount of sunlight in, so much so that Makoto groaned when he rose to consciousness again.

“Urgh,” he grumbled, trying to turn over before wincing and realizing that _ow_ , maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

“You’re up.”

Makoto’s eyes blinked open at that voice. He turned his head and stared at Laurent, who was sitting gracefully in the armchair Abby had previously occupied, with his legs crossed and a book in his hand.

“I’m up,” Makoto echoed, feeling a little dazed as he took Laurent in.

Laurent looked, for lack of a better word, terrible. Makoto had thought his own dark circles were bad, but Laurent looked as if he hadn’t gotten a proper night’s sleep in the whole week since Makoto was shot. His skin was pale and drawn tight around his eyes and mouth, his hair unkempt and there was even stubble growing in on his chin and jawline where he usually shaved. He was at least dressed closer to how Makoto remember, in an elegant dark blue turtleneck that brought out his eyes and what looked like black slacks, though they were rumpled.

“How are you feeling?” Laurent’s accented voice was intent.

Makoto blinked, still feeling a little fuzzy from sleep. “Um… better. Could use a shower.” His stomach was tight and aching too—a snack wouldn’t be out of the question either. And a whole pitcher of water. “Or a drink.”

As if Makoto had requested it, Laurent immediately set aside the novel he was reading and went hunting around the room. He returned moments later with a clear glass of water that made Makoto’s mouth feel even drier.

He struggled to sit up, only to have warm, strong hands keep him steady as he wriggled backwards against the headboard.

“Careful now,” Laurent reprimanded.

“’M fine,” Makoto replied, out of habitual instinct more than truth. He wasn’t used to being coddled.

“Here.” Laurent handed him the glass. “Don’t drink too…” Makoto drained the glass in one fell swoop, “… quickly.”

Makoto sighed in relief. “That was good.” He grinned at Laurent. “Might be nice having a personal butler while I recover.”

Laurent shook his head, but his eyes were laughing as he sat back down in the armchair. “You can keep dreaming, dear Edamame.”

Makoto rolled his eyes. “You’d think you guys would drop that stupid nickname with everything that just happened,” he complained.

It might have been his imagination, but Laurent’s smile faded slightly at his words. Like with Abby the night before, Makoto suddenly felt as if he’d taken a step only to find there wasn’t a second stair and coughed lightly. “Anyway… Abby told me you managed to salvage the con with Popescu.”

Laurent’s expression eased and he leaned back into the armchair. “It wasn’t hard. He was… desperate to make amends.”

“Good,” Makoto snorted. “Hope he paid the hospital bills too.”

“As if I’d trust him with your medical care,” Laurent said lightly.

Makoto bit the inside of his cheek. Laurent was being… weird. Weirder than usual, which for him was already at a pretty shocking level. “So, were you too busy doting over me to shave?” he said, only half-joking as he gestured towards Laurent’s disarrayed appearance.

What he expected was a silly reply, most likely on the flirtatious side of things, that would get this conversation back on track. Instead, Laurent sighed heavily and didn’t answer.

Something uncomfortable started to settle in Makoto’s gut, and it wasn’t the pain from his bullet wound. Abby had seemed chill, but maybe Laurent _was_ angry about the deal going ass up. Because of him. Makoto never knew how he had the time, but Laurent was a meticulous planner—every last detail had to be organized ahead of time, with diversions from the course being swiftly covered with minute adjustments. It was hard to account for a key exchange at this point in the con being completely upended, and one of his men being taken out at the same time. Before, Laurent had indulged Makoto’s flights of fancy where he would try to pull a fast one on him, most likely because it all turned out the way Laurent had expected. But this… what if he didn’t think Makoto had it in him to be a good partner anymore?

“Are you in pain?”

Makoto flinched out of his thoughts. “Um—what?” he said intelligently.

Laurent’s expression was concerned. “Your wound—does it hurt?” he prodded.

Come to think of it, it was aching slightly, even while he lay still. But that was suddenly the least of Makoto’s worries.

“I—it’s fine. Listen, Laurent…” Makoto struggled to find words, an embarrassed flush sliding up his spine to his neck and ears. “I’m sorry. About the deal. I know it wasn’t in the plan, and I fucked up big time.”

Laurent stared at him.

“But, you know, I can try and make it up to you by being more on the intelligence side of things for the rest of the con. Or once I’m feeling better I can get back out onto the field—”

“You’re not working on the con anymore.” Laurent’s voice was flat and unyielding, colder than Makoto had ever heard.

Not… working…

He gaped like a fish and felt his insides twist into painful shapes. _Isn’t this what you wanted?_ a voice echoed from deep in his brain. For the past few months, ever since Laurent had dragged him back into the world of confidence men, he’d been screaming and crying to be let out. But to suddenly be _dropped_ , because he wasn’t good enough for the job of all things, was shocking and surprisingly painful. What was he supposed to do now?

“I… Right,” he said distantly. “I get it.” They’d still paid for his medical care, despite the trouble he’d caused them—an unnecessary but oddly kind gesture. The least he could do was not argue about being booted from the team.

Shit.

“Good,” Laurent said stiffly.

Makoto’s face felt numb. He couldn’t bring himself to say anymore. Instead he just leaned his head back and stared at the perfect white ceiling for a while, listening as Laurent’s breathing, which had slightly accelerated, eased back into its base pattern.

Part of Makoto wanted to ask Laurent to leave, but a bigger part was scared what he’d do once faced with his thoughts alone. With Laurent beside him, he had to at least pretend to be paying attention.

“Mind if I turn on the TV?” he finally asked.

“Be my guest.”

Because that’s what he was, really, wasn’t it? A guest. A tourist who had been dropped into a foreign country, with a fumbling grasp of the language and little to no direction while the natives dragged him around. ‘Course, once they realized he wasn’t much fun to hang out with, they would park his butt on an airplane and sent him flying back home.

Makoto reached for the remote, hissing slightly, and clicked the on button. It was local news—he switched mindlessly until he found an English-speaking channel that could filter into his brain easier.

At his side, Laurent picked up his book and resumed reading.

Maybe fifteen minutes passed. Makoto still couldn’t put his disappointment behind him. And all he’d gotten from the current channel was that it was about deep-sea fish.

There had to be _something_ he could say to change Laurent’s mind.

His hands fisted in the expensive sheets. “I can make it up to you,” he said lowly.

“What was that?” Laurent replied distractedly.

Makoto cleared his throat. “I said, I can make it up to you,” he said firmly. “Just give me another chance. You know what I can do, you’re always blabbing on about my potential.” He turned to glare at Laurent fiercely. “Let me prove it.”

Laurent put his book down, startled.

 _Yeah, weren’t expecting_ that _from me, were you?_ Makoto thought triumphantly.

“… I don’t understand?” Laurent said, puzzled, and something inside Makoto snapped.

“A con! Something small, big, I don’t care! Give me another chance, and I’ll blow your fucking mind with how well I can charm the pants off a mark!” Makoto snarled. He felt feral, desperate. Somewhere along the way, he’d suddenly _needed_ to stay. “I’ll get you… I don’t know, ten million dollars, single-handedly. Just name your price, and I’ll show you I’m worth keeping around.”

Makoto was halfway out of the bed now, a hand clenching Laurent’s stupid turtleneck and dragging him closer. He could see the individual lashes framing those intense blue eyes, now wide in surprise. He could even feel warm breath on his face—but then the terrible pain in his abdomen took over and he released Laurent.

“Ow, ow, ow, _shit_ —”

“Be careful!” Laurent said, alarmed.

Makoto was promptly pushed back into his pillows and Laurent pulled up his T-shirt.

“Get off!” Makoto screeched, pushing at Laurent’s head. “You asshole, you _fire_ me then try to strip me?”

“I’m just checking your wound!” Laurent snapped, his anger so surprising it succeeded in quelling Makoto. After a heartbeat, Laurent sighed and let the shirt fall. “It doesn’t look like you tore your stitches.” Then a pause. “Wait, _fire_ you?”

Makoto stared at him, at the perplexity on his face. “Was that not what just happened?” he asked.

Laurent’s expression indicated that something ridiculous was going on, like Makoto growing a second head. Its legitimacy was almost as confusing as why Laurent seemed confused in the first place—Makoto could count on his fingers the amount of times he was one hundred percent convinced Laurent was being genuine.

“You just told me you didn’t want me on the con,” Makoto said slowly, enunciating clearly, “because I messed up.”

Laurent coughed out a startled laugh. “Edamame, that was—” He lapsed into silence for a moment. “That wasn’t… me _firing_ you, but I just don’t want you working on this _particular_ con, not when you’re recovering from a bullet-wound and those thugs might try to meddle in our plans again.”

Oh.

Makoto eyed him suspiciously. “So… I’m still part of the team?” he asked.

Laurent’s head tilted slightly, and amusement gleamed faintly in his eyes. “I would’ve thought you would have jumped at an opportunity to get out of a con. Or at least put up a blustering front—I’ll admit, it’s nice to see where your true loyalties lie.”

Makoto flushed. “Shut up, you moron. I still wanna know exactly why you won’t even let me do intel for the rest of this con. I can _help_ and you’d better not be doing this just to keep me from getting my cut—”

“Of course not,” Laurent interrupted. “You’ll get your share, fair and square—”

“What are you, Doctor Seuss?”

“—but none of us want you working when you could be recovering instead.” Laurent’s light-hearted expression faded. “You really scared us.”

Makoto’s mouth, already forming a sarcastic retort, went dry. He thought of Abby’s directionless anger, Laurent’s persistent strangeness throughout this conversation. He remembered people crying out his name and warm fingers on his face.

He coughed. “I’m… sorry? I didn’t mean to get shot.”

“I’m not saying you did. But understand that by the time we finally got to you, you were hardly conscious. There was… blood, everywhere. You kept speaking in Japanese and Kudou didn’t want to translate whatever it was you were saying. Abby was convinced you were a goner.”

Trust Abby to have such little faith in him. Makoto cracked an uncomfortable smile. “Yeah, well, I’m a cockroach. Unkillable.”

“If only that were true,” Laurent murmured, watching him. “We got lucky this time. _You_ got lucky. But none of us feel comfortable with you jumping right back in without having time to process.” He hesitated. “We want to keep an eye on you.”

“So what, I’m under house arrest?” Makoto said wryly.

“You seem eager to willfully misunderstand my intentions,” Laurent replied, just as dry. “We want you safe. I don’t want to lose you.”

That was the final nail in the coffin. Makoto wanted to sink into the pillows, pull the sheets over his head to hide his burning face. Why had he said that? And why had he said it _like_ that? Laurent’s frankness was both a slap to the face and a gentle caress and Makoto wasn’t sure which he preferred. But assured that this forced vacation wasn’t permanent, he finally felt himself relax a little.

“Fine,” he said, Laurent’s words ringing a little in his head. “I’ll play. Or not, rather.”

Some of the tension that had been keeping Laurent’s frame rigid melted out of him. “Thank you. Trust me, you’ll much prefer this—they’d never admit it, but Abby and Cynthia are fully prepared to wait on you hand and foot while you get better.”

The joke eased the tension between them. “What if I want _you_ to do that?” Makoto challenged. “Can’t say no to me, can you? Since you can’t lose me.”

Laurent’s eyebrows drew together and his lashes lowered. Then he leaned forward and said smoothly, “ _Do_ you want me to?”

A shiver ran down Makoto’s spine and beneath the duvet his toes curled at Laurent’s seductive tone. When had he ever found himself susceptible to Laurent’s specific brand of stupid horniness? “Just testing you,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse. “Congrats, you passed.”

“Oh no, Edamame,” Laurent said, grinning now. “Your wish is my command. I’ll hereby be your servant until your wound heals.”

“Does that mean I can ask you to shut up and you’ll listen?” Makoto said hopefully.

“You’ll have to do the shutting up yourself, I’m afraid.”

“Very funny.” Makoto’s skin was blazing.

“Why thank you.” Laurent suddenly stood, now towering over Makoto and making him feel even more disadvantaged in this weird argument. “All jokes aside, I’m happy to help you while you find moving difficult. You mentioned a shower?”

Makoto stared up at him. “Are you serious?” he said, trying for deadpan.

Laurent laughed. “Relax, you can keep your underwear if it makes you uncomfortable. Or I can ask Cynthia or Abby to do it.”

An image of Cynthia chortling at his scrawny body and Abby grimacing in disgust flashed through his brain. “… Never mind. You’ll do just fine.”

Laurent seemed a little surprised at his acquiescence but shrugged a shoulder. “Do you want to do it now?”

Get into a shower half-naked with Laurent Thierry? This was a terrible idea.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.” He shifted to put his feet on the ground, minding his wound.

“Do you need—”

“Nope. I’ve got it.” He straightened and took a deep breath as the bullet wound sparked pain. Laurent was watching him, concern furrowing his brow.

Makoto limped into the bathroom. Laurent followed at his heels, so clearly hovering that the irritable part of Makoto wanted to snap at him to back off. But then he remembered those startling words— _I don’t want to lose you_ —and he relaxed. Unexpected as it was, Laurent was just… worried. About him.

What was also unexpected was how much Makoto liked that.

In the light of day, it was easier to adjust to the bright lights of the bathroom. As Makoto had surmised from the previous night, it was just as luxurious as the rest of the hotel room—every surface shone blindingly, and Makoto once again wished that he could get into the hot tub which occupied one corner.

“You can’t soak injuries in water, right?” he said dejectedly.

Laurent, behind him, placed a careful hand on his lower back and left it there when Makoto didn’t snap. “I’m afraid not, Edamame. But I can assure you, a shower will make you feel better too.”

Makoto sighed. “Thought so. Ah, well.” He moved further into the bathroom and Laurent’s hand dropped away. “So how do we do this?” he asked, tone becoming brusquer.

“Well… I have an idea so that you and I can both stay decent without soaking our clothes. Swimsuits?”

Makoto eyed Laurent suspiciously. It was a surprisingly sensible and non-lurid idea. “… Sounds good.”

“I’ll go get them, then. And tell Cynthia and Abby you’re awake.” Laurent vanished quickly—or maybe Makoto had already adapted to how slowly he’d be moving around for the next few days. How long did bullet wounds last anyway?

With nothing else to do while he waited, Makoto noticed his bag of toiletries haphazardly set on the marble counter next to the sink and began to rifle through. Almost as good as a shower, he decided, was brushing his teeth.

He was still scrubbing vigorously when the door to his hotel room opened and a red head of hair peeked into the bathroom.

“Edamame!” Cynthia exclaimed, rushing in.

“Cynthia!” Makoto said around his toothbrush and a mouthful of foaming minty paste. “Wait-wait-wait—!”

Cynthia stopped before she could envelop him in a hug. Then her nose wrinkled. “Wow, you really smell.”

“Nice to see you too,” Makoto said sarcastically before spitting in the sink and rinsing his mouth.

Cynthia was watching him with that same eagle-eyed look he’d noticed on Abby and Laurent. “I am very happy to see you,” she said softly, more tender than he’d ever heard her.

Unable to help himself in the face of her sincerity, he blushed. “Um… yeah.”

“Does it hurt?” Cynthia pointed at his injury, still hidden beneath the loose T-shirt.

“Yeah, but not so much now.”

“The doctors had you on painkillers while you were in the hospital—we’ve been administering them via injections since we moved you to the hotel but if you want more do you think you could take pills?” Cynthia asked.

Makoto shrugged. “Should be alright. How long have we been here anyway?” Come to think of it, he was a little alarmed that the others had decided to take him from the hospital and plant him in a hotel room instead while he was still unconscious.

“Just the past couple of days,” Cynthia explained. “We’ve had a physician come in to check on you to help administer the painkillers and to keep you on an IV on and off. There were some points where you were conscious enough to be eating and drinking yourself, but it wasn’t frequent.”

Makoto shook his head, amazed. “Definitely don’t remember any of that.” He paused. “Wait, how have I been going to the bathroom?”

Cynthia grinned at him cheekily. “Would you rather I said catheter or bedpan?” she said sweetly.

“Ugh.” Makoto grimaced at her and she laughed, high and tinkling.

“I'm so glad you're finally awake,” she added. “We were worried, Edamura. It’s good to have you back amongst the living.”

Makoto smiled back at her. “Good to be back, even if I smell like a horse and could eat a dozen cheeseburgers.” His stomach growled loudly at the thought.

Cynthia snapped her fingers. “ _That’s_ what we were forgetting. How about we get you something to eat after your shower…” she covered a hand over her mouth, “…with… Laurent?”

“He told you?” Makoto groaned.

Cynthia suppressed her laughter. “Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the teasing to a minimum while you recover. But it’ll be back to fair game once you’re better.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said resignedly.

The hotel room door opened again. “And speak of the devil…” Cynthia sang, just as Laurent rounded the corner.

“I think you’ll find, dear Cynthia,” Laurent replied, completely unperturbed to find her in the bathroom, “that this devil has only the purest of intentions.”

“Lies,” Cynthia and Makoto said in unison.

“Well, that hurt.” Laurent placed two folded items of clothing on the counter, one of which Makoto immediately recognized as his swimsuit. “Now, Cynthia…?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Cynthia said, all tease. “Don’t drown Laurent in the shower, Edamame-kun! We still need him!” She sashayed out, waving her hand in farewell.

Makoto huffed a laugh. “No promises.” The door clicked quietly closed behind her.

There was a moment of awkward silence as Makoto and Laurent both stared at the swimsuits.

“Shall we?” Laurent finally invited, plucking his own right back off the counter. “I’ll go change outside. Call me if you need any help.” And then he was out the bathroom door.

Makoto blinked, startled. That would have been a prime gross flirting opportunity, but Laurent had passed it up. Not that Makoto was _complaining_ —

He shook his head and began to undress. Or, at least, tried to. Ironically enough, he managed to shimmy his boxers off with ease, and it took some painful maneuvering, but he got his swimsuit on without too much trouble. The minute he tried to raise his arms above his head though…

“ _Fuck_ ,” Makoto snapped, abandoning his attempt to pull his T-shirt off.

“You alright?” Laurent’s disembodied voice said from outside the bathroom.

Makoto gritted his teeth, tried again. The stretch was alright at first, but then it hit the point of no return and his arms dropped once more. “I… I can’t get my shirt off,” he admitted, somewhat angrily.

“Would you like some help?” Laurent’s voice sounded amused.

“… Yes, damn it.”

Laurent reappeared. He was bare-chested now, his trunks revealing strong, muscular legs and a generally lean physique that Makoto suddenly found very embarrassing to observe. He’d seen Laurent in a swimsuit before, but in the close walls of the bathroom, it felt different. He averted his eyes as Laurent drew closer and the distance between them narrowed.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Laurent murmured, voice surprisingly gentle as he reached for the hem of Makoto’s baggy shirt.

Makoto could only nod and swallow hard as Laurent’s fingers curled around the edge and slowly began to pull it up. He did his best not to move or react as more of his bandaged abdomen was exposed, though he couldn’t help but flinch a little when one knuckle accidentally brushed against his bare skin.

“Sorry,” Laurent said, immediately drawing his hands closer to his own body so that they wouldn’t touch Makoto anymore.

“S’okay,” Makoto mumbled.

Makoto started to try and lift his arms, but Laurent tutted him. He dropped them, confused, as Laurent reached around and pulled the back of the shirt over his head. “There we are,” Laurent said, satisfied, as the soft fabric tugged at Makoto’s hair before finally slipping past. Then he gently rolled the T-shirt down Makoto’s arms, still taking care not to touch him.

“All done,” Laurent said, his voice fading slightly. He held the T-shirt bunched in his hands, but made no move to toss it or to move away from Makoto. Instead, he looked at the splay of bandages across his lower torso and his expression hardened slightly.

Makoto tensed a little and, unsure of where to look, he focused his gaze on the familiar gold-and-turquoise gleam of the ring Laurent always wore around his neck. It exemplified all the secrets Laurent seemed to keep—but Makoto had never had the courage to ask about it.

Laurent was still staring at him with that odd look on his face, though, so Makoto cleared his throat. “Laurent?” he said pointedly.

Laurent twitched. “Sorry. I was distracted thinking about whether we should take the bandages off or not. It would do you good to redress the wound…”

“You’re the one who spoke to the doc, so… I trust your judgement,” Makoto replied.

“A dangerous game,” Laurent said, and with that, he had flipped back into normal-mode again as he gave Makoto a slow wink.

“Shut up, you moron.” Makoto found where the bandage had been secured and pulled it free. Unwinding it was a pain, but Laurent didn’t offer to help this time, instead going to turn the shower on and check the temperature of the water.

Beneath the bandage was a sterile gauze, on both his front and, when he craned his neck to check in the mirror, his back. It was weird to see how he could visualize the trajectory of the bullet through his body, how it had torn through flesh and then emerged on the other side. On top of the gauze though, Makoto was startled to see purple and green bruises blooming over his solar plexus—likely from when the goons had punched him.

He prodded one particularly violet patch and winced as it ached.

“You coming in?”

Makoto’s gaze snapped to where Laurent leaned against the shower wall. Makoto felt a now-familiar thrill shudder down his spine as he watched some stray water droplets travel down Laurent’s chest.

“Um… yeah.” Makoto stalked over, doing his best to keep his expression neutral.

Laurent moved back into the shower, now fully doused in the spray, and Makoto took a few hesitant steps in after him. Any reservations he had immediately melted away once the warm water struck his skin and he sighed heavily.

Laurent had already busied himself gathering the hotel-provided soaps and shampoo that were artistically clustered on a small shelf near the showerhead. “Here we are,” he said, wriggling the bottles in Makoto’s direction. “Chamomile or bergamot?”

“I… don’t know what either of those are,” Makoto answered honestly. Flower scents hadn’t been part of his English education.

“Bergamot,” Laurent decided, pronouncing the word with French intonations. “Stand still.”

Makoto obeyed, though he was starting to feel a bit tired on his feet.

With swift, professional motions, Laurent opened the cap and got a small dollop of soap. He caught a bit of water in the palm of his hand and finally touched Makoto. His hands were warm and sure as he worked the soap into a lather on Makoto’s shoulder, and slowly began to work his way down the arm.

Without even meaning to, Makoto found himself relaxing into Laurent’s touch. The pressure he was exerting soothed Makoto’s muscles without ever becoming too much. When Laurent moved onto his other shoulder, Makoto murmured dazedly, “I’m starting to think that before you were a conman you were a masseuse.”

“Oh?” Laurent’s hands traveled softly over his skin and dispersed the soap. Its light scent was permeating the bathroom now, sweet and comforting. “I have been told I have magic hands before…”

Makoto groaned in exasperation. “See, _this_ is why I don’t ever compliment you to your face,” he said.

Laurent’s hands stilled at Makoto’s wrist, light and unrestricting. “So, you compliment me behind my back?” he said craftily. When Makoto tried to shoot him a glare, he seemed utterly focused on washing Makoto’s hands for him, eyes lowered and intent.

“No,” Makoto replied, trying for nonchalant. Laurent’s smirk told him he hadn’t been successful.

The small banter had been a brief distraction, but now that everything was quiet again, Makoto found himself hyper-fixating on things to keep the exhaustion of standing at bay. The sensation of water pattering on his back, the pink-orange color of the bathroom’s marble tiles, the feeling of Laurent’s clever fingers travelling back up to his chest…

Makoto inhaled sharply and Laurent immediately stopped.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

That was his first thought?

Makoto shook his head.

“Sit down, I’ll wash your hair.”

Makoto gingerly lowered to the ground and sat cross-legged on the tile. Laurent knelt behind him and grabbed the shampoo. Then there were hands in his hair, surprisingly gentle. Even more surprising, how great it felt. Makoto slowly closed his eyes as Laurent began to work the shampoo into his wet hair, comforted by the familiar fingers running through the strands…

Familiar?

A small memory sparked in the back of his mind. A warm hand resting on his head and Laurent’s whispering voice penetrating the haze of pain after being shot.

Makoto’s heart thudded a little louder. Hadn’t Laurent called him by his first name? He could have imagined it, but then why did Laurent’s hands in his hair feel so familiar?

Laurent was still thoroughly washing his hair, taking care not to be too rough. Goosebumps prickled down Makoto’s arms despite the heat of the shower. He had to ask.

“Laurent, when I was… When you guys found me, after I was shot. I thought I heard you call my name.”

Laurent’s hands paused in their movements for only a moment. “Well, like I said, we were all worried about you,” he said lightly.

“But you called me by my first name,” Makoto insisted, suddenly wishing that he was turned around so he could scour Laurent’s expression for any hint of the truth.

“Maybe I did. I was focused on more pressing matters, like how one of my men was bleeding out.”

“Don’t be flippant,” Makoto said, annoyed. “After months of being referred to as ‘Edamame’, you calling me Makoto is pretty significant.” He paused. “You really must have been worried.”

It wasn’t a goad, exactly. But it kind of was.

“Of course I was worried.” Ah, there it was. Another chink in the armor, as brightly visible as the frustrated splinters in Laurent’s tone. “For all I knew, you’d be dead before we got you to the hospital.”

Makoto was quiet for a moment. “I liked it, you know. As much as I could understand what was happening at the time, I found it comforting. I didn’t even know you knew how to pronounce my first name.”

“It’s certainly not as difficult as your last name is for a Frenchman.”

“You can definitely pronounce it,” Makoto complained. “I’ve heard you say it before. You just pretend not to because you like your weird little power trips.”

“How about a compromise, then?” Laurent gently tilted Makoto’s head back and to the side, so that he was able to look into those blue eyes. “I’ll call you by your first name.”

Heat flashed through Makoto. “I—uh—I’m not sure that counts as a compromise.”

“You said you liked hearing me say it.” Laurent was wholly focused on him. As they stared at each other, a few droplets of water dripped out of his blond hair and slid down the side of his narrow nose to the corner of his lips.

Makoto was really regretting ever opening his fat mouth. “I did,” he croaked.

“Then…” Laurent’s voice deepened as he leaned closer. “Can I, Makoto?”

Makoto couldn’t even answer. He was just wanted to close the gap between them, so desperate that his head felt light and the bathroom was spinning—

“Shit,” he breathed, slumping over as black spots crowded in at the edges of his vision. That, of course, only served to make his wound scream in protest and he grunted in pain.

“Makoto!” Laurent straightened him so that he could lean against Laurent’s chest. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry,” Makoto mumbled, blinking fiercely to clear the distortion from his vision. “I think I nearly passed out just then.”

“Let me turn the water off,” Laurent said, and Makoto could feel him twist behind him so that he could reach for the shower handle.

“Make it cold,” Makoto instructed. “I think it was just the heat getting to me. I don’t want to get out yet.” It was just like the hot springs back home in Japan—the lack of food hadn’t helped.

Laurent paused, then did as he asked. The steaming rain quickly turned chilly and Makoto shivered. Laurent resettled behind him, but Makoto could feel his tension.

“Tell me if you start feeling faint again,” Laurent said, reaching around so he could push some of the soapy locks that had fallen onto Makoto’s forehead back up.

Makoto hummed in agreement and leaned back against Laurent. The next few moments were quiet as Laurent resumed his task, pouring handfuls of cold water over Makoto’s head to rinse out the shampoo and then carefully navigating his torso and legs with a loofah. Makoto, for his part, was happy to let Laurent do all the work—he wanted to sit back and try not to think about how close they’d come to kissing. Not that their position was helping much, with Laurent’s legs cradling him and the warm support of his chest behind him. It was, in a word, intimate.

_Can I, Makoto?_

Maybe the cold water could wash his blush away.

“All done,” Laurent said, putting the loofah down. “You still with me?”

“Yeah.” Makoto cleared his throat. “Thanks for that.”

“It was no trouble.” Laurent moved away so he could stand and Makoto instantly wished that he hadn’t as his back was drenched with freezing water. Then the shower was off, and the bathroom echoed with silence.

“Here.” Something dropped on his head, obscuring his vision, and Laurent began to vigorously towel off Makoto’s hair for him. “The last thing you’d need after a bullet wound is a cold.”

“Who knew you were such a softie?” Makoto said once he’d spat the fibers from his mouth.

Laurent laughed, the familiar, deep chuckle that now sent butterflies reeling in Makoto’s stomach. “Squishy as a marshmallow. That’s how I’ve made it so far in the business of confidence tricks.”

Laurent pushed the towel off his head so that it rested on his shoulders, and Makoto was finally able to look him in the face for the first time since he’d nearly passed out. That annoying, smug face. But it wasn’t smug or annoying now—was that what it meant to be having non-platonic feelings for your con-artist partner? No longer wanting to punch them in the nose every time they so much as breathed in your direction and instead mash your face to theirs?

“Help me up,” Makoto asked, lifting his arm.

Laurent seized it and easily pulled Makoto to his feet. They swayed for a moment until Laurent steadied Makoto with a hand on his hip. Now they were practically nose to nose, which Makoto wasn’t quite sure how to feel about.

Okay, that was a lie. He definitely knew how he felt about it. In fact, this morning alone had offered a host of revelations that concluded with: _I want to kiss this asshole._

“Alright?” Laurent’s breath brushed against Makoto’s lips.

“Yeah,” he whispered back. His heart hammered in his chest. Slowly, his hands came to rest on Laurent’s upper arms.

Laurent blinked at the gesture. Then, with a small sigh, he tipped his head forward so that they were touching, forehead against forehead.

The butterflies in Makoto’s stomach weren’t settling. “Um, Laurent?” he said tentatively.

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

Laurent’s eyes opened to half-mast. His irises, deep wells of blue, were warm. “Just enjoying the moment.”

Makoto’s hands slid up, gliding smoothly over damp, chilled skin, until he was cradling Laurent’s face. Like how Laurent had held his when they found him bleeding out in that alleyway.

“You idiot,” he said, watching as Laurent’s eyes widened further. “ _Now’s_ the time you decide to enjoy the moment?”

And then he leaned forward and kissed him.

Laurent’s lips were warm, soft, and oh-so-responsive as the hold on Makoto’s hip tightened. Makoto leaned in, enjoying the pressure as Laurent kissed back with fervor.

When they broke apart a few seconds later, Makoto was already panting from the exertion. Laurent, of course, still had his breath.

“Well, well,” Laurent said, smirking, “it looks like I—”

“Nope.” Makoto shoved his hand over Laurent’s mouth. “Stop talking. You are _not_ going to ruin this with a stupid-ass pickup line.”

Laurent held his hands up in surrender, but Makoto could see by the crinkling around his eyes that he was still smiling. And when Makoto warily lowered his hand, it was only for Laurent to pick it up and press a warm kiss to the palm.

“Understood, Makoto,” he murmured, eyes glinting with amusement.

Makoto groaned. “I should’ve never said I liked you saying my name.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe next time I’ll learn.”

“Please don’t.”

“ _Anyway._ ” Makoto pulled free of Laurent’s grip. “Didn’t you say something earlier about redressing my wound?”

“Indeed, I did.” Laurent let him go, though it was only to run a newly appreciative eye down Makoto’s figure that only hesitated when it caught on the gauze padding his wound. “But I’ll have to ask for another kiss as payment.”

“Die,” Makoto told him solemnly.

“Ouch! Cold, my little soybean.”

“Keep being gross and you’ll never get another kiss outta me ever.”

Laurent vanished pretty quickly after that. Once he was out of sight, Makoto finally allowed himself to laugh, just a little because it hurt.

Laurent was a conman, yeah, and an incorrigible flirt, but also the smartest man he knew, one who had seen him at his lowest and had still given him a chance. The guy who only swindled crooks and looked out for his team and had stayed by his side when he was unconscious and who kissed really fucking well.

So, Laurent Thierry, huh?

He could definitely do worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Guys GUYS I was just scrolling through Twitter after watching Case 4 when I found that someone drew fanart inspired by my fic???!!!! WHAT!!!??? I am over the moon, it's so beautiful!!! I'll post the link below so you guys can go and give the artist, Erio, some love <3  
> https://twitter.com/eriochromatic/status/1306022010816884736


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